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Last weekend I took the highway up from Boise to Moscow, Idaho to ride with my youngest brother (his first motorcycle) and hang out with various family who tend to congregate annually at Troy Days.¹ The first place Jesse brought me was to our namesake (but no actual relation) road.

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After filling up with pancakes, coffee, sausage, and uncle stories, we headed over Moscow Mountain to ride on trails Jesse discovered above Potlatch. I was sad to see on the way that many of the peaceful areas I rode as a kid have become a maze of dusty logging roads.

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We made a tiny detour to take in the view from the old lookout atop Moscow Mountain, a place I’ve been many, many times. Jesse remembered the spot but hadn’t been able to figure out how to get there. This was my mountain destination for many years.

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At a fork in the trail, we planned to go upwards after first exploring to the left. There weren’t any signs to suggest one way or the other. A few miles down the left trail, though, a guy with some homebrew gold panning equipment told us we had to turn around, that we shouldn’t have disregarded the sign. What sign? He insisted there was one.

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The two track behind Laird was easy-going but sometimes had ruts to be mindful of. A scary bug flew into my helmet and after a flailing moment I felt the tire catch before hitting the ground — first time down on the GS.

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Sadly, the single track only lasted about four miles then merged with a dusty, whoopty ATV trail. We stopped in a clearing to check in with the women. Jesse went hunting for good toiletry leaves which, as usual, signaled everyone in the vicinity to converge.

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A tall fellow on an ATV rolled into the clearing first. We shot the bull while waiting for his buddies. He was griping about having to ride an ATV instead of his motorcycle. It sounded like his friends talked him into it. He was a little surprised to see the GS there. “Katoom” is his preferred ride.

It was about fifteen minutes before we saw those friends of his — almost worrisome. The one in shorts had gone off the trail after losing visibility in the dust. He said he knew he would be rescued since he had the beer.

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Back into the woods, the trail started all friendly and nice and then turned to loose rock on steep hills, eventually landing us on a logging road. The Palouse OHV map omits most all the roads and trails so it was hard to figure out the best way. We just kept choosing the downward option.

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The momma watched anxiously, something of a mutual feeling. She was making huffing sounds while we looked at her cubs. I figured Jesse was closer to her so I would have time to get away if she got violent.

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After what seemed a mind numbing distance on dreadfully dusty gravel roads, we had the highway in sight. Then to our great dismay, we saw a metal gate with a large chain and padlocks across the road we’d endured so long.

On closer inspection (praise the motorcycle gods), the chain was only hung on a nail, not wrapped around the post. We opened the fence and went through, then noticed the “Keep Out” sign. It seemed a bit weird since we didn’t encounter a gate or signs coming from the other side.

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With full gear, including tall black boots, I was glad for cooler temperatures in McCall. I’d seen 104°F over the last hour. It remained above the century mark for the last two hours home. I felt well done but also well pleased with my first grown-up brother ride.